Looking at the Shot Glass—The Filling the Holes Job
by Wesfan1234
Summary: He sat and looked at the shot glass sideways, turned it to see how the color would change in the light, the amber deep and inviting. Takes place prequel, through seasons one thru three.


Takes place prequel, first season, second season, and third season.

Looking at the Shot Glass—The Filling the Holes Job

Alcohol. Was it a crutch? Was it a symptom of a larger problem? Or was it oblivion, a way to numb the years of pain? Did it fill a hole in his heart? An excuse that was there right before him. No one would understand what it did to him, how it made him feel. It made him feel stronger, faster, think more intelligently. It was a farce disguised in the smoky liquid that burned as it went down.

The shot sat there, looking back at him, urging him to take that one sip, which would lead to another and another. One drink would never be enough. Two would never be enough.

He sat and looked at the shot glass sideways, turned it to see how the color would change in the light, the amber deep and inviting. Picking it up, he smelled that familiar smell, deep and rich, realizing that it was just inches from his lips. The smell was intoxicating. Not the way one would think that alcohol was intoxicating. It smelled like heaven.

It made him feel heavy, languid, as he downed shot after shot. His muscles relaxed, his mind hazy. He usually wasn't a mean drunk, at least when he drank before. After, it seemed to solve all his problems. Through the haze and aftermath, it didn't seem that bad, until he woke up and faced the facts. Then he'd begin again, if just to feel that one instant where the haze would take over.

Placing it back down on the bar, he turned it again, hoping that it was a mirage placed before him to tempt him. Alcohol couldn't tempt him. He was making it tempt him. That's why he ordered it, placing his money face down the bar, sitting in the seat, twisting until he was directly in front of it.

No one around him even flinched as he sat down. This crowd didn't know him, didn't realize what he was going through, sitting there, contemplating breaking his eight month fast. Most of them would probably salute him, drinking down their beers, their whiskeys. Hell, it was an Irish bar, so what else would they all do?

The feel of the shot glass in his hand was too familiar, had been familiar for over three years. Sure, he drank before then, sometimes too much, but it wasn't the crutch and he could go for weeks without feeling it slide down his throat.

Sam had changed that. It wasn't Sam's fault. He'd never use that as an excuse. Using someone else as an excuse for drinking was crazy. He'd seen too many of his colleagues say that they drank because of their kids, their spouses. That was a crock of shit. Blaming someone else for your addictions was a cop out. He took the full blame for every time he picked up that shot glass, downed the rich liquid in record time, slamming it back down on the bar for another round. People didn't make one drink. His mind made him want to drink. His pain made him want to drink.

Pain. Did it kill the pain? Did it deaden the fact that everything was gone in an instant? Did it deaden the fact that he'd lost everything, including things that he had control over? He could have picked up the pieces after it happened, could have salvaged what had been left of his life, but he didn't. It hurt too much, had done too much damage to his psyche. He'd double over every morning he awoke even months after it had happened. The drink took that pain away, if just for a little while. He knew it wasn't the way to deal. He'd told everyone who asked those first few months exactly that. Then he stopped talking, they stopped listening and abandoned him. Or maybe he'd just never talked in the first place. Just what he wanted, to be left alone.

Guilt. Guilt drove him until he dropped, usually because of his job. If he hadn't taken his job so seriously, maybe he would have been there more. Would the drink drown the guilt? For months and months, he'd played it all over in his head as he sat at that hospital bed. If he'd been a better father, if he'd been a better husband, if he'd been a better person? Was God punishing him for all the sins he had committed? Prayer just didn't seem to fit, didn't seem to work, didn't seem to make him feel better. It didn't fix this. He wanted to fix this.

The year of living in hell came to an abrupt close, all because of something that was out of his control. He'd sold everything he could, had done everything he could do, but it wasn't enough. Everything was gone, including his marriage. She just didn't understand, couldn't grieve, couldn't deal with his grief herself since she wasn't allowed to voice what she was feeling. He'd closed down, wouldn't talk to her, wouldn't help her understand what he was going through. The alcohol made it easier for him to slip away, when she was yelling at him to take control, when she begged him to get help, when she walked away without a glance back.

He thought that his colleagues were his family, but in the end, they turned away from him too, not knowing what to do for him, not knowing how to support him through this. They didn't know what to say, what to do when he'd show up so drunk he couldn't stand for more than two minutes. His coffee cup was always full of whiskey. During meetings, he couldn't focus, couldn't provide input. He refused to travel, which was the biggest part of his job. The one time he did, it all went to hell, the company losing millions on a heist that he could have seen coming a mile away. You're fired couldn't come soon enough. It wasn't just because he couldn't do his job during the months that he spent at the hospital. It was the fact that they didn't know what to do for him afterward.

If money were no object, he could have possibly saved his son. He'd been offered the amount from a somewhat dubious source, but it still wouldn't have mattered. The treatment would still have been experimental at best. It had worked for several people, had given them time for their own bodies to fight to survive. Was Sam too weak to do this? Only in the end, he couldn't take the money, couldn't sacrifice his morals because his son was dying. He wasn't even sure of its source, but he could guess.

He hadn't even remembered what happened at the funeral, having been so blindingly drunk, he couldn't even stand during the service. His wife had tried to prop him up, pull on his arm, but in the end, he just sat in the church once everyone had left and cried. The last to arrive at the cemetery, he stood over the newly dug grave, pounding the ground in grief after everyone had paid their respects. The disease took his son too soon. They could take him too. But he wouldn't participate in that act. It would have been a sin to kill himself quickly, so he'd do it slowly. The alcohol provided this crutch.

He shuffled around Los Angeles for months, then packed his car for Boston, but that didn't provide any solace. Traveling across the country, he'd drank in more bars, had done more odd jobs to keep himself in booze and gas than he ever thought possible. Two years of this. Two years of being buried by the alcohol. He never thought it was possible.

He'd been offered jobs, jobs that could support him, jobs that could keep him in alcohol and probably women, because the women came out of the woodwork once the ring was gone. He wasn't that charming without the booze, but after even less so. He'd sit at a bar, get hit on numerous times during the night. Once or twice and probably more since he couldn't remember, he actually took the woman up on it. Since he already felt guilty about everything else, why not this? Just like the alcohol, he buried his grief deep, just as he buried his body inside someone he never intended to even give the time of day. Most of the one night stands killed time, made it bearable to get up the next day. A few thought they could save him, make him realize that he actually had something to live for. He would ruin that on the first sentence, the first begging for him to get help. He'd even taken to yelling get out to one or two. He'd lost count on how many he had bedded. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered was the alcohol, until the big score. His reputation as an honest man, which he never truly believed, attracted an element that would hire him under the table. The meeting in the bar, at the time, looked to be that big score, the job that could keep him in alcohol for a long time. He'd not have to work after this, could grieve in peace and quiet, could slowly die in peace and quiet.

"I need one honest man."

"They're thieves."

Hence the needing of his skills of planning to do something that seemed on the surface the right thing to do. In too deep, he didn't see it coming. It was a con.

"No. I'm not a thief."

"Thieves I got. What I need is one honest man to watch them."

And watch them he did. In the end, he didn't see the double cross, didn't see the fact that he was hired because he was expendable. He had nothing, no family, no friends, no job, no life. No one would miss him. No one would look for him. Just like no one would look for the three standing in front of him.

"Then the only reason you guys are here is because you didn't get paid. And you're pissed off."

He laughed, actually laughed once he realized what had happened. They were all screwed.

"As a matter of fact the only way to get us all in the same place at the same time is to tell us that we're not. Getting. Paid," he surmised, voice halting at the end.

If his mind hadn't been a bit hazy because of all the drinking the night before, and the hangover, he'd probably would have realized that he had been played a lot sooner. The others looked at him like he had all the answers. He did finally have all the answers, and didn't want them to get hurt or worse because he was slow to the punchline.

Almost two years later, he sat at the bar, contemplating the amber liquid in front of him. He had quit, if just for them, but not for himself. He'd quit because he hated what he'd become, what he was, what he was heading toward. They gave him something, something so precious to guard, but now, looking at the shot glass in front of him, that could take it all away.

Placing the five over it, he walked away. It felt good, like he was making the right choice, like he was in complete control. He wouldn't ruin what he had taken time to build, even if it looked to be falling apart right before his eyes. They depended on him to be there, to guide them, to help them. Even if one of the parts was now missing, he had to be there for the others.

And when it became too difficult a few weeks later to not resist it, they didn't abandon him. Sure, they were angry and sad that he finally succumbed to its charms. Once he started, once he took that one sip, that one glass, that one bottle, he was lost. But they didn't abandon him.

"You should leave," he moaned one night, having had one too many after a con.

"We're going," his friend said, grabbing his jacket. "Tomorrow?"

"Leave. For good. Don't come back," he yelled at the three. "Just like she did."

"She'll be back."

"When?" he asked. "When?"

"Tell us you need us?" the blonde woman asked.

"I don't need any of you. Don't you understand?"

"Doesn't work that way," the older one pointed out.

"Family doesn't abandon family," the youngest member called out.

"You're stuck with us," the girl stated, pulling open the front door.

"See you tomorrow."

And with that, he knew he'd never be rid of them, even if one of them bolted, they'd come back. They were family.

When he finally admitted he needed them, he needed her, everything fell into place. The alcohol was still there, still running his life, still taunting him. He'd have to get over that, have to move beyond the fact that it was his crutch. They hadn't abandoned him though, stuck by him through thick and thin, even if they didn't have anything else to give.

The hand that squeezed his held tight. As he looked up into the face of his dreams, he understood now that the drink before him didn't mean anything anymore. She did. They all did.

"Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"You with me?"

"Always."

Pulling her close, he buried his head in her hair, hoping, pleading that they'd all stay, they'd all take the pain away, all take the loneliness away.

"Don't leave," he said into her hair.

"I won't. I'm here."

Another arm came around, then another, until there were multiple limbs instead of just two.

"Group hug."

"OK, hands."

"What?"

"Keep 'em to yourself."

"Oh, come on."

He couldn't breathe, but that didn't matter. They were all here. That's all that mattered. They were family.


End file.
